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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25886281">Together We Fall</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flymeto_themoon/pseuds/Flymeto_themoon'>Flymeto_themoon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Angel Iwaizumi, Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, like a pretty moderate amount of angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:28:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,385</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25886281</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flymeto_themoon/pseuds/Flymeto_themoon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Since before he even knew what the words meant, Tooru's mother had told him stories about guardian angels. Bedtime tales of beautiful creatures that would watch over children and keep them safe. </p><p>Years later, Tooru would find out just how right she was.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Alternatively,</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Iwaizumi: "Angels are real. Now stop jumping off roofs and making my life difficult."</em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Some children are raised on television shows. Poor kids that are plopped down in front of a flat-screen by parents that are too lazy to raise them. A little bit of drool drips from one corner of their mouth as they stare blindly at the budget stars making cheesy jokes to the backdrop of fake laughter. Yes, some kids are raised on television.</p><p>Oikawa Tooru was raised on fairytales. </p><p>Even before he could talk, his mother would sit on her oversized bed, curled up under a plush comforter with a one-year-old Tooru on her lap, and read aloud from thick fantasy books. </p><p>Tooru was an only child, the result of many years of trying and failing, <em>failing and trying</em>, to have a baby. His mother and father were just about to give up when they finally had him. </p><p>His father was forty when Tooru was born. He had been well established in his career as a police sergeant, respected and well-liked by almost everyone. The man had just noticed a couple of gray hairs at his temple the day that the pregnancy test came out positive. Tooru's mother was thirty-two, recently transitioned from a businesswoman to a stay-at-home wife. She'd left her successful managerial job two years before, in preparation for a baby. They were both ecstatic to finally have their own child.</p><p>Tooru had always suspected that he was incredibly spoiled because of that. </p><p>His mother hardly ever bothered with picture books; <em>"Too boring for my Tooru,” she'd say.</em> Tooru doubted that she even owned any apart from a select few. Instead, she'd read traditional Japanese folk stories or translated English fairytales. </p><p>There was the tale of Issunboushi - a one-inch boy who fought a devil to become a full-sized prince. Kintarou, the strong boy who became a famous martial artist. Cinderella, the (admittedly bloody) story of the girl with the glass slipper. Momotarou, the peach boy. The princess and the pea, Rapunzel, Urashima Tarou. Each story was different from the last. </p><p>They'd be told every night, his mother making it her priority to never read a story more than once. And she never did. But, after a while, she ran out of new stories, and she would have to come up with her own. </p><p>Those stories were the ones he liked the most: stories of fairies and heroes and elves, vivid tales that she'd make up on the spot. But his <em>absolute favorite</em> bedtime story was the one with a guardian angel. </p><p>He can still remember the story, down to the very word.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It was a typical night for the seven-year-old boy. </p><p>Tooru was buried under a mountain of blankets, trying to hide the fact that he had swiped his father’s new flip phone. He mashed the stiff buttons as he played some snake game, one with a twisting white block that refused to stop colliding with itself. </p><p>He let out a little huff of frustration as the snake died once again.</p><p>“Tooru, are you still awake?” his mother called from just outside the door. </p><p>Tooru burrowed even further under his blanket. He tried to still his body so he wouldn’t get caught. </p><p>“Tooru?” she asked again, voice right beside his bed. </p><p>The boy fidgeted. He had no way of knowing that his face could be seen through the blanket, illuminated by his father’s phone screen. </p><p>His mother let out a dramatic sigh, “Oh my, Tooru must be asleep.” </p><p>Tooru felt smug, happy that he could out-smart his very smart mother. </p><p>“I guess I’ll have to skip the story tonight.” </p><p>Now, he felt much less smug. Shooting straight up to a sitting position, he let the blankets fall around him. The phone sat glowing in his hand, incriminating him for his crime. </p><p>“I’m awake, mom.”</p><p>A disappointed look was directed at Tooru. There were small creases around his mother’s eyes. “What have I told you about taking your father’s phone?” </p><p>Tooru glanced at the thick Nokia device. “Not to,” he mumbled, looking downward with a guilty expression.</p><p>She took the phone from his hand, placing it on the nightstand beside his bed. </p><p>“Naughty boy,” she teased, before placing a wet kiss on his forehead, a loud ‘smack’ echoing in his room.</p><p>He scrunched up his face in annoyance, swiping at the wet spot to get rid of it. “Mooom,” he whined. </p><p>She chuckled lightly and settled back down into the wooden chair beside his bed. “I have a new story for you tonight.” </p><p>In response, Tooru settled down on his pillows, staying still as his mother tucked him in under the navy comforter. It was studded with white stars and colored galaxies, all winding together into a pretty pattern. He waited for her to pull out a thick fairytale book, but instead, she immediately launched into the story, book nowhere to be found. </p><p>“This one is about a guardian angel. Do you know what that is?” </p><p>Tooru opened his mouth, a large yawn overtaking his small face. He shook his head twice, <em>no, he didn’t know.</em></p><p>“Guardian angels are angels who live down on earth. They watch over little boys and girls and keep them safe.”</p><p>Tooru’s mouth opened again, this time to ask a question, but his mother cut him off immediately. </p><p>“Shush, Tooru. You interrupt me too much. I already know what you’re going to ask.”</p><p>He couldn’t help his little giggle. His mother soldiered on, continuing her <em>very serious</em> bedtime story. </p><p>“They help their children in different ways, depending on the situation. Usually, they make it seem normal, so the child has no idea,” his mother paused for dramatic effect. “<em>But, this story</em> is about a girl who actually <em>saw</em> her guardian angel.”</p><p><br/>
His mother settled into that position that she always took whenever she told Tooru a particularly interesting story. A thin blanket was produced from under Tooru’s bed and this one had stars as well, but all in various shades of blue and green. She draped it over herself as she brought her two legs up on the chair, crossing them under her body. </p><p>“There once was a young girl named Amaya. She had light brown hair that her mother always pulled into pigtails, and bright green eyes that glowed like emeralds in the sunlight. She grew up in-“</p><p>“Mom, that’s your name.”</p><p>“Tooru, what have I said about interrupting me during my stories?”</p><p>Tooru ignored her. “She has the same color hair and eyes as you too.” </p><p>His mother waved away his concerns with a little motion of her hand under the blanket. “All a coincidence. Now, I’m going to keep going and if you interrupt again, you’re going to sleep without a story.”</p><p>Tooru mumbled and grumbled unintelligibly. </p><p>“Where was I?” she paused, eyes looking up to the ceiling, at the glow-in-the-dark planet stickers she stuck up there two years ago. “Oh, right! She was born in Tokyo, and lived there with her mom and dad. They didn’t have a lot of money, but they were happy.”</p><p>“Amaya was a very unlucky girl. It was her curse. She tripped over things, made messes, got in trouble with her teachers for things that weren’t her fault. But no matter what, she never got hurt. It was surprising, and Amaya began to think there was something odd going on. This was proved right on her seventh birthday.”</p><p>“She was walking home from school, crossing the busy street, when her foot caught on a deep crack in the road. She tripped and fell onto the crosswalk just as the stop light turned green.”</p><p>“A large truck didn’t see Amaya fall, and began driving. She didn’t have time to scream before the car was right in front of her. She didn’t even have time to close her eyes.”</p><p>“But then, without warning, the truck was gone. It disappeared like it had never existed. One second there was a truck barreling toward her, the next second, the lane was empty. Amaya was lifted up by her armpits and dragged over to the safe sidewalk. But when she looked behind her, there was no-one to be found. The only thing she caught was the faint glimmer of a boy, but that, too, vanished into thin air.” </p><p>“Now, Amaya was a smart girl. She knew that something funny was going on, so she kept a close eye out for any sign of that glimmering boy. For weeks, there was nothing.”</p><p>“But, then, on one unimportant day, Amaya was laying on her bed, studying for a spelling quiz, when the outline of a boy shimmered for no more than a second, a foot to her right.”</p><p>Tooru’s mother once again paused for dramatic effect.</p><p>“Amaya had to think fast! The boy would be gone within seconds, she knew. So, Amaya reached out blindly toward him, somehow landing a hand on his arm.”</p><p>“Then, the image stopped flickering and became clear. She could see the boy! He was a tall teenager, with dark black hair and a pair of green wings that took up half of Amaya’s room. His face was gentle, a smile shown at Amaya.”</p><p>“She asked him what he was and he said ‘a guardian angel.’ His job was to save Amaya, and he said he’d been very busy with all her accidents. Amaya learned that every girl and boy has a guardian angel, but almost none ever meets them.”</p><p>“He told Amaya that she could never tell anyone that he existed, or else she could not have a guardian angel anymore. Amaya didn’t want that to happen, so she never told anyone of her guardian angel, not even to her son Tooru that she had twenty-five years later.”</p><p>Tooru let out another large yawn. “Mom, did you really have a guardian angel?” </p><p>His mother furrowed her brows. “This story isn’t about me.”</p><p>“But,” Tooru paused in deep thought. “Her son’s name was ‘Tooru.’ That’s my name.”</p><p>“You’re not the only Tooru in this world, now are you?”</p><p>Tooru was about to disagree once more but his mother cut him off. She lay a hand in his fluffy brown hair. It tickled. “The most important part of this story isn’t whether it’s true or not, Tooru.” </p><p>She kissed his forehead once more, and Tooru didn’t wipe it away this time, eyes already getting heavy with sleep. </p><p>“The most important thing to remember is that there will always be someone looking out for you. Never forget that. You are loved. You will always be loved.”</p><p>She stood up, walking toward the door and flicking the light switch. The room turned dark, the only source of light from his alien night light near the door. The bright green alien smiled up at him, matching his mother’s soft smile. </p><p>Tooru shut his eyes to both his mother and the alien. His consciousness began to drift away, and he readied himself for a nice night of dreams, probably of guardian angels and young versions of his mother. </p><p>“Night, Tooru.”</p><p>“Night, mom,” he mumbled, right before the door closed. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>After that story, Tooru found himself thinking back to it, over and over again.  Especially in random circumstances, in moments that he shouldn’t.</p><p>He’d be sitting in math class, zoning out as the class went over multiplication tables, and suddenly a child version of his mother would be there, falling down in front of a car as her guardian angel lifted her up and away. </p><p>More than once, his teacher had slapped a ruler against his desk, lecturing Tooru on the virtues of ‘listening to your elders.’</p><p>But still, he liked that story. At the age of ten, he’d doodle tiny angels into the margins of his notebooks, alongside small alien heads and stars. </p><p>He couldn’t help but think that maybe <em>he</em> had a guardian angel looking over him, and <em>what would that angel be doing right now?</em> He’d picture some beautiful angel, one who looked like his mother and would laugh lightly every time Tooru said something funny, or look concerned when he tripped. </p><p>He wondered if there was any way to see her, to see if his mother’s story had been real. </p><p>But, time passed, and as his childhood faded away, Tooru forgot all about guardian angels. They became a sweet memory hidden alongside countless others - lost in a vast ocean of stories. </p><p>They bobbed up and down in the waves, trapped as if in messenger bottles, just waiting to be rediscovered. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Tooru’s childhood was a happy one. He didn’t have the annoyances that many of his classmates complained about: sisters, nagging parents, chores. His life was easy, and that was the way he liked it. </p><p>Because of his father’s high salary and all the money his mother had saved up from her managerial job, The Oikawa’s lived comfortably - in a large house in the gated area of Miyagi. </p><p>Tooru would greet the security guard every day on his way to and from school. The guard was an older man named Takahashi (Tooru guessed he was about sixty) with smile lines that went deep into his face as he grinned at the young boy. Tooru would sneak Takahashi his mother’s homemade cookies every so often, and pass them to him before school. The chocolate chip delicacies were somewhat of a bribe - both of them knew it.</p><p>Something of,<em> I’ll keep giving you cookies, and you don’t tell my mom when I sneak out at night to practice volleyball.</em> It was an unspoken agreement that they both stuck to. </p><p>At school, Tooru was neither popular nor unpopular. He got along with his boy classmates just fine, and every so often, one would come over to his house for a playdate. Usually, Tooru would force them to play volleyball on his makeshift court outside. The ‘court’ consisted of a weathered volleyball net attached on both sides with wooden planks. He had begged his father to put them into the ground for weeks until the man finally relented, with a huff and <em>‘fine, Tooru. But you’d better not knock them over.’</em></p><p>The court was his most prized possession alongside a well-used, off-white volleyball. The thing was dented on one side, scratched all-over, but Tooru always cradled it carefully. It sat in the corner of his room when not in use, next to his bed and the glowing alien nightlight. </p><p>The girls in his class took no notice of him, choosing to chase other boys around on the playground. They wanted nothing to do with the (slightly pudgy) Tooru, or his weird obsession with volleyball. That is until he hit puberty.</p><p>At twelve, Tooru sprouted up like a tree, growing one and a half times his old size, towering over his classmates like they were years younger. His body leaned out, his smile no longer seemed too big for his face, and he began styling his hair so that it was less of a tangled mess. </p><p>He became a weird word: <em>“cute.”</em> The girls would whisper it as he sat in front of them in class, usually accompanied by their giggles and reddened cheeks. </p><p>He got a - sort of - fan club, one that would huddle on the sidelines as he played volleyball at Kitagawa Daiichi. The girls came faithfully to each practice, every game. They shouted and cheered whenever Kitagawa managed a point and even louder when Tooru himself scored.  He welcomed the fan club with open arms, very much okay with the extra attention. He would smile at the girls and watch on in wonder as they swooned; one time, a girl even fainted. </p><p>The attention became addicting. </p><p>He loved that he could affect so many people with just one smile, a wink, or with a scored point. And so, his adolescence began with a bang and continued as he entered high school. Girls swooned even more as he played for Aobajosai. </p><p><em>Life</em>, Tooru thought, <em>is good.</em> And it was good - it stayed very, very good - until the day it wasn’t anymore. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Tooru~,” his mother sing-songs cheerily as she swings open Tooru’s bedroom door. The scent of pancakes and bacon grease wafts into his room, and he reluctantly pulls the cover off his head. </p><p>“Can’t I sleep for five more minutes?” He asks in a groggy voice, eyes still shut to the light of day. </p><p>“You can,” she begins, and Tooru lets out a sigh of relief, “but don’t expect any pancakes to be left when you come back down.”</p><p>He pops one eye open to see his mom’s wide smile. She’s whistling as she stirs a bowl of pancakes, one hip leaning against the doorframe. </p><p>“Mom, I bet you haven’t even made any yet,” he groans right before pulling the covers back over his head and nestling under the sheets. </p><p>“You’d be betting wrong. I made four: two for your dad and two for me. If you don’t get up right now, I’ll just refrigerate the pancake mix I <em>would have</em> used for your pancakes and bang,” He knows his mom is winking - the theatrical woman - “no pancakes for Tooru.”</p><p>Tooru lets out one long, loud groan; it stretches on for much longer than it needs to. His mother talks over it, still cheery. </p><p>“See you downstairs in ten minutes.”</p><p>The door shuts gently, and Tooru spends a couple more seconds mustering up the energy to get out of bed. </p><p>Finally, he takes off the covers, shivering as he shuffles over to the full-length mirror on the back of his door. He takes one look at his bed-hair and the crust gathered in the corners of his eyes, scoffs, and heads to the bathroom to get ready for school. </p><p> </p><p>Exactly ten minutes later, Tooru is downstairs with a big smile, cologned and fan-club ready. He’s rocking perfect hair, a stylish sweater hidden under his school uniform, and just the <em>tiniest bit</em> of his mother’s face powder. </p><p>His father grunts a hello at him just as his mother smiles. </p><p>“Tooru~,” she sings. Her attention is directed at the pancake she is flipping over on the stove. “You really need to stop borrowing my makeup.”</p><p>Tooru coughs loudly, his face turning red under the curious glance of his father. </p><p>“Mooom,” he whines. </p><p>His mother ignores him, taking the last pancake off the pan and placing it on the top of a perfectly stacked plate of pancakes. She places the plate on the dining table, alongside orange juice and bacon. </p><p>“Eat up, you two. I can’t have you be hungry all day.”</p><p>His father grunts in response, immediately placing a couple of pancakes on his plate and digging in. He’s always been a man of few words, Tooru supposes. </p><p>Tooru sits down and eats alongside his father. The room is silent apart from his mother’s humming and the satisfied slurping of two men guzzling down their breakfast. </p><p>Once Tooru’s father is done eating, he scoots backward, the wooden chair squeaking as it slides against the kitchen tile. Tooru’s father stands up and gives his wife a quick peck on the lips. </p><p>“Delicious as always, love.” </p><p>“Did you expect anything less?” </p><p>Tooru’s dad chuckles. His eyes crinkle slightly as one of his rare smiles overtakes his face. “Never.”</p><p>In quick, efficient motions, the man grabs all his police gear: his badge, coat, the gun that hangs near the back door. </p><p>“I’ll be back at nine,” he says with one foot already out the door. “I’ve got a big case. Jewel thief- something or other.” </p><p>Tooru’s mother hums. “Okay. Be safe.” The door slams shut just after her words.</p><p>In comfortable silence, Tooru finishes up his pancakes. He slides a couple more bacon slices on his plate and looks over at his mother. </p><p>She’s staring out the window in what looks like a thoughtful pose, but Tooru knows she’s just staring at the dog next door. It’s a hateful little thing - one that loves to do nothing but dig in the Oikawa’s front lawn and pee on their flowers. She’s probably fantasizing about sending it to the pound. </p><p>“Mom,” he says, mouth still full with bacon. “What are you doing today?” </p><p>“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she chastises, still looking out the kitchen window. “Nothing much. I was thinking about going to the grocery store.” </p><p>Tooru hums in understanding. <em>Mom stuff.</em></p><p>He glances at the clock, hanging on the wall a few feet away. With a jolt, he realizes it’s 9:15, fifteen minutes after he usually leaves for school. </p><p>He takes one more pancake, pockets it and runs toward his mother, bringing one backpack strap over a shoulder. </p><p>“Bye mom,” he rushes, hugging her. “I’m late. Gotta go!”</p><p>“Bye Tooru,” she laughs, hugging him back. “Hurry back home after school. I need your help making dinner.” She hands him a bento box which gets stuffed into his bag. </p><p>Tooru nods frantically. His backpack falls slightly off his shoulder as he leans down to tie his sneaker. With one hand, he pulls the strap back up. </p><p>“Okay, okay. Come back early. Got it.”</p><p>His mother waves at him as he runs out. He swears under his breath as he runs down the street. <em>He’s so going to be late for first period.</em></p><p> </p><p>The school day begins normally, boring and tedious, just like any other. He passes time during first period by winking at one of his fans, smirking as he watches her face light up red. </p><p>The teacher drones on and on about English verbs and Tooru does his best not to fall asleep. He can feel his eyes closing just as the announcement system sounds off in his room. </p><p>“Oikawa Tooru to the office. Oikawa Tooru please come to the office.”</p><p>The class teases him, a handful dragging out an ominous, “ooooh.” </p><p>Tooru rolls his eyes, packs up his backpack, and stands up. “The problems of being the famous Oikawa Tooru~” he sing-songs. A handful of the girls giggle as the boys roll their eyes. </p><p>He makes his way over to the dean’s office, already well acquainted with the path from his numerous detentions. Hey, he can’t help it that high school classes are so <em>boring</em>. He can’t fight the way his eyes close and his head lulls to the side as he falls asleep.</p><p>With a dramatic sigh, he heaves open the dean’s door, expecting to see the stern-faced woman. She’ll start droning on and on about ‘respect’ and how it’s ‘not good to sleep in class.’</p><p>Instead, he comes face to face with his father, dean nowhere to be found. </p><p>“Dad?“ he asks, incredibly confused. </p><p>His father just shakes his head and takes Tooru into his arms, burying his son in a strong embrace. Tooru stays stiff as his father hugs him - doesn’t know what to do - because his father never hugs him, <em>never</em>. He just isn’t the type. </p><p>Then, small sobs wrack through the man’s body. Sniffles and cries that move throughout his father’s whole self, starting from his shoulders and moving down to his arms and legs. The man is shaking, quivering against Tooru and <em>Tooru knows. </em></p><p>Tooru knows what has happened. </p><p>Wordlessly, he returns his father’s embrace and they curl around each other, sinking down to the floor and burying themselves in each other as they cry. They cry and cry. They cry for what seems like hours, or just a few seconds, all at the same time. </p><p> </p><p>Later - when the police report comes in, and even later, when they are burying his mother into the ground - the two don’t cry. They both pretend to be strong for the other, and even as relatives cry into snot-covered rags at the service, neither men shed a tear.</p><p>People will commend them on <em>‘how strong you are,’</em> and <em>‘oh, you two are acting so brave. I could never be like that.’</em></p><p>Even worse is his aunt’s <em>‘don’t be afraid to cry, Tooru. You’ll feel better once you let it all out.’</em></p><p>No, aunt Kaiyo. No, Tooru would most definitely <strong>not</strong> feel better after letting out ‘a good old cry.’ Tooru doubts he’d feel better ever again. </p><p>It was like he lost a part of himself with his mother, and when he looks at his father, he can tell the man is feeling the same. The usual spark in his eyes has dimmed, the rough smile nowhere to be found. One of his mother’s old friends pats his father on the back. </p><p>Tooru can’t take it anymore. Can’t take the stuffy house full of apologies and sad faces. He can’t handle the black dresses and black suits with black ties, the black tablecloths underneath black napkins. </p><p>So, he does the only thing he can think of: he plays volleyball. </p><p>As his relatives all crowd in his house, sharing stories of their favorite memories with his mother, small funny anecdotes that get the room laughing, Tooru is outside. </p><p>He tosses the worn down volleyball over the net. Walks to the other side to retrieve it. Spikes one so hard that it crashes into the white picket fence yards away. Picks it up. </p><p>Over and over again, he walks back and forth like a robot, limbs stiff as the boards propping up the net. </p><p><em>Spike. Toss. Throw.</em> Those are the only words passing through his mind. </p><p>He doesn’t think of his mother’s smile or the way it must have warped as she lay crumpled on the ground, bloody underneath the black sedan. He doesn’t picture the way she used to say his name, <em>“Tooru,”</em> soft and sweet, even as she made him clean his room or make the bed. Or all those old stories that she would read to him before bedtime. She had tried to read to him again, only a couple weeks ago. <em>“You want me to read you a story, Tooru? Remember those?”</em> <em>“Mom,”</em> he had whined. <em>“Stop treating me like a little kid.” </em>He had said no to her back then, hadn’t he? Why had he said no? He should have appreciated every moment with her, he should have loved her more, he should have-</p><p>He feels a tear slip out of one corner of his eye. </p><p>He shakes his head vigorously. <em>Spike. Toss. Throw.</em> He focuses on his body playing volleyball, only thinks of the way he can improve for next practice.</p><p>Tooru welcomes the blank feeling. It’s better than the pain. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>A week later, Tooru goes back to school. He suffers through endless condolences and pitying glances. The sentences buzz about like annoying mosquitos, ones that just won’t leave him alone. They circle him, surround him at all times. Tooru wants to swat them away. </p><p>
  <em>“I’m so sorry your mother died.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Please come to me if you need to talk.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I can’t believe that happened to such a nice lady.”</em>
</p><p>His math teacher, a normally strict, no-nonsense hag, skips his desk when passing out homework, and that’s about all the sympathy Tooru can take for the day. </p><p>He slumps over in his desk, dozing off during that class, then doing the same in history and Japanese. He fake snores, just so that one of his teachers will treat him like normal. They could berate him, send him to detention. It doesn’t matter, just so long as the pity stops.</p><p>But before Tooru knows it, the bell has rung, signaling the end of his last class. He picks his head off the desk and watches as the students file out, one by one. Some speak in whispered voice and gesture toward Tooru. One of his fan club members smiles sadly before walking out. </p><p>None of his teachers had woken him and it feels much worse than it should. </p><p> </p><p>After school, he walks slowly, dragging his feet against the gray sidewalk. He goes as slow as possible, delaying the inevitable fact that he is going home to an empty house. His mother won’t greet him at the door, or be there to help him study (not that he was given anything <em>t</em><em>o</em> study).</p><p>It’s real, now. He’s all alone. </p><p> </p><p>He stops to say hello to Takahashi at the gate. The old man still smiles at him, just like he has every other day of Tooru’s life. Tooru welcomes the normalcy almost desperately, smiling a wide smile back at the man. </p><p>“How was school today, Tooru?”</p><p>He shrugs. “Same as ever. How was work, Takahashi?” </p><p>The old man shrugs back. “Same as ever. Hey, I have something for you,” he pauses to lean down in his booth. Sounds of items falling and crashing hit Tooru’s ears, as well as Takahashi’s murmured “dang it all.”</p><p>Finally, he pops back up, a Tupperware full of chocolate chip cookies in his hand. He smiles at Tooru, handing him the container. “For you. Figured it was about time I paid you back.” </p><p>Tooru takes one look at the cookies, stares at them, and then feels his eyes start to prick with tears. </p><p>It’s the first act of sympathy that actually seems <em>genuine</em>, and the fact that Takahashi is so sweet is too much for Tooru. He really ought to get the old man a present for all his hard work. </p><p>Mumbling a quiet thanks and ducking his head, Tooru takes the container and speed walks toward his house. As the house looms closer and closer, Tooru clutches at the cookies tightly. Way too soon, he is standing in front of his cherry-red front door, hand outreached for the handle. </p><p>He pauses, takes in a deep breath and lets it out past his lips. He can do this.</p><p><em>Here we go</em>, he thinks. <em>This is the first step to becoming normal again. </em>Another pause.</p><p>Maybe he can’t do it, after all. </p><p>Still, Tooru opens the door, walking briskly inside and shutting it behind him before he has the time to chicken out. </p><p>The house is silent. </p><p>Tooru isn’t quite sure what he was expecting, but he supposes that silence isn’t bad. Silence isn’t the worst thing in the world. </p><p>But then the silence doesn’t stop, his mother doesn’t swing around the corner, her hair tied up in a messy bun with a few strands framing her face. She doesn’t ask, <em>how was your day today, Tooru? Did you learn anything new?’</em></p><p>Suddenly, the silence feels constricting, winding around his throat and making his eyes burn with unshed tears. </p><p>He runs up the stairs in long, fast bounds, skipping three steps at a time. He sprints into his room, finds his headphones, plugs them into his ears and plays some ear-splitting metal music. It’s one that his mother most definitely would <em>not</em> approve of. She’d tell him that it was rotting his brain or something. </p><p>He turns the music up louder. </p><p>Lying his back on the bed, he tosses his worn volleyball up and down. He does it rhythmically, to every other hit of the drums. After a while, he gets bored of the pattern and looks around for something to aim at. </p><p>His eyes zone in on the round light a few feet above his bed. </p><p>It’s a dumb light, Tooru had thought so ever since he turned thirteen and realized that the weird alien stickers he stuck on it would never come off. His mother had thought it was cute, his father frowned at him for ruining <em>‘a perfectly good light.’</em></p><p>Now, he aims straight for it, tossing the ball high enough that it grazes the light, but no so high that the fixture cracks. It’s actually a good exercise in self control, and he continues doing it as the song begins to fade out. </p><p>The end of the song is so soft, ending with sad, long drawn out notes that Tooru zones out. </p><p>Up and down, the ball goes. It scrapes the white glass. </p><p>Down and up. </p><p>Tooru frowns slightly. That toss was too low, not coming close to hitting the stickers. Tooru readies himself for a slightly higher toss. He wants to graze the light again. </p><p>Suddenly, the screaming first note of a new song blares through Tooru’s headphones and he throws the volleyball too hard, surprised. </p><p>All he can do is watch on in horror as the ball crashes into the light. It shatters the fragile glass at impact, as well as the mercury-filled bulb. Shards of glass rain down, right at Tooru, right towards his head. </p><p>It happens so fast; Tooru doesn’t have time to bring up his arms and shield himself. He doesn’t even have time to blink. </p><p>As if in slow motion, a flickering figure appears over Tooru’s head. It puts a hand on Tooru’s chest to steady itself as it floats overhead, a finger brushing against Tooru’s exposed skin - his shirt had come down as he tossed, the ratty thing too big for his body. </p><p>Tooru feels a zing fly through him and then the figure is no longer flickering. He’s solid, facing the shattering glass, blocking Tooru from the danger. </p><p>Huge wings are spread out above Tooru’s body. They glow white, and Tooru stares at them, at the way they seem to shine under the sunlight from his open window. The wings block most of the figure; all Tooru can see is the top of his hair. </p><p>It’s spiky, short, black. </p><p>All this happens within the span of a few seconds. Before Tooru can even blink, the angel’s hand is gone.</p><p>The angel flips around in the air, moving so that he can face Tooru. It (he?) lets out an audible sigh as it does so, as if in great relief. </p><p>Then, the angel takes in Tooru’s wide eyes, the way his mouth is parted in surprise as the earbuds fall out of his ears. </p><p>“Shit,” the angel murmurs. </p><p>Then he’s gone and Tooru is left staring wide-eyed at his now-lightless ceiling. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s hours later when Tooru’s dad finally comes back from work and Tooru has done nothing but pace around by the cherry-red door in the meantime. </p><p>“Dad,” Tooru says the second that his father has a foot in the front door, wasting no time. “I saw a guardian angel.”</p><p>His father takes a long, hard look at his son, takes in the glazed eyes and hair sticking this way and that. Tooru winces a bit at his father’s judging eyes and runs a hand through his hair, trying to fix himself so that he doesn’t look completely insane.</p><p>Finally, the man speaks. His voice is level, emotionless as he hangs up his police gear by the front door. “Is this a joke, Tooru? Because I’m really not in the mood for it.“</p><p>“I’m 100% serious and I need your help.”</p><p>His father doesn’t look at him and focuses all his attention on taking off his shoes and then coat before walking toward the kitchen. Tooru trails after him, so close to his heels that he would slam into him if the man stopped walking. </p><p>“Remember how mom used to tell me stories when I was younger? Fairytales and stuff?”</p><p>“Please, Tooru. I’m tired.” Tooru’s father sticks his head into the refrigerator, rummaging around for something microwaveable. </p><p>The two haven’t had a proper home-cooked meal since Amaya died; it has been mostly takeout and pizza with the occasional leftover lasagna from the funeral. Relatives had stuffed countless pyrex containers full of food into their fridge after the service, and there was barely an inch of open space in there now. It was going to take the Oikawa men months to get through it all. </p><p>“Dad, come on. Can’t you just listen to what I have to say? It will only take a second, and it’s really interesting how much is in common with mom’s stories. I think you’ll agree if you-“</p><p>His father cuts off Tooru’s ramblings with a held up hand. The other hand is resting against the man’s pinched eyebrows, like he’s warding off an impending headache. </p><p>“You’re being over-the-top again.” </p><p>A lightning strike of pain hits his chest and Tooru winces, trying to hide his hurt expression. Not that it matters, because his father isn’t even looking at him, too busy watching the microwave as his lasagna heats up. Still, hurt as he is, Tooru knows he has to persevere. <em>This is important,</em> and his father has to at least understand how important. </p><p>“Once, mom told me about her own guardian angel. She told me that I have my own guardian angel too, and today I saw him while I was-“</p><p>“Tooru,” his father snaps in his authoritative voice, the one he uses in the police station. “Stop.” </p><p>Immediately, Tooru shuts his mouth and looks down at his feet, sufficiently chastised. His feet are bare, toes somewhat red because of the cold kitchen tile beneath them. </p><p>“You’re too old for this,” his father continues, still stern but his voice is now without the authoritative edge. “Your mother thought it was endearing but now that she’s gone,” Tooru winces with each word, “You need to <em>grow up.</em>“</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>For a few minutes after his exchange with his father, Tooru begins to doubt that the angel had been real. Maybe he had made it all up, his mind desperate to see some part of his mother alive again, even if just one of her stories.</p><p>He trumps up the stairs dejectedly, thoughts depressed and self-loathing. The words echo in his mind, playing in a never-ending loop. <em>Grow up, grow up, grow up.</em> By the time he’s reached the last step, he has convinced himself that he had, indeed, made the whole thing up. </p><p>His father is right and will always be right. There’s no use thinking about his mother’s stories anymore - no use in thinking at all. </p><p>But then he’s in his room and the light is still there, broken and jagged, a reminder that <em>yes, </em>Tooru had seen an angel and nothing his father says can make that untrue. </p><p>He saw an angel. And Tooru is going to do his damn best to prove it. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The next day at school, Tooru completely forgets about the pitying glances - which are still very much being directed at him - and the fact that his mother is gone. Instead, he focuses on that angel. </p><p>Now while he naps in class, he no longer wishes for his teachers to wake him up, no longer wants to be free from nightmares of his mother’s body crumbling as she died. Now, he dreams of white, glowing wings, curled around him protectively. </p><p>In one dream, he is falling to his death but his angel lifts him up, taking him to heaven. Most of the angel is blurry, and all Tooru can make out is the spiky mess of hair, black as night. The angel’s voice is soothing, mumbling a weird angel language into his ear as they float top towards the clouds. </p><p>The bell rings and Tooru wakes up with drool dripping from his mouth onto the desk. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Every day after school, Tooru runs back home, shouting a distracted “Hi Takahashi,” before running inside, to his bedroom and flinging open a worn laptop. It was his mother’s and Tooru’s father still has no idea that he’s taken it, hidden it under his bed. </p><p>Every day, he types in the same keywords into google search: evidence of guardian angels. </p><p>Most of the results are bullshit Christian sites. </p><p><em>Do We Have Guardian Angels? - Are They Even Real</em> from preachitteachit.org. <em>Does Everyone Have a Guardian Angel?</em> from coldcasechristianity.com. </p><p>He finds some pictures that creep him out: blurry photographs with white figures looming in the background. There are red circles highlighting the white shadows, arrows pointing toward the undistinguishable shape. </p><p>He even finds videos on youtube - people sobbing to the camera about their ‘spiritual visits’ and how the lord is all-knowing and we need to repent. The shiver that passes through his spine chills him, and he resolves never to become one of those people. They’re either delusional or crazy - Tooru is neither of those things. </p><p>But as the days pass, finally morphing into a full week, Tooru has to ask himself, <em>I</em><em>s he really so different from those people?</em> Maybe he is the crazy one here. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>About a week later, Tooru is busy with his research, face lit up by the artificial white light of his computer that casts changing shadows on his face. He scrolls through article after article, watches a few conspiracy videos and is back to articles again. So far, he has not found a scrap of real proof. The internet is full of hoaxes, obviously fake stories with doctored photos. </p><p>After another hour of this, Tooru has the slights-hysterical sense that if he continues his research for any longer, he’ll actually go crazy. If he finds one more fake article on angels that is really just an ad for an Evangelist bible camp, he’ll honest-to-god <em>(haha)</em> lose his mind. </p><p><em>Poor Oikawa Tooru,</em> people will say in twenty years as they point at him on the street, dirty and alone. <em>He could have been something,</em> they’ll shake their head in disbelief, <em>but then he went insane</em>. Maybe kids will point and laugh at him. </p><p>Exhaustion finally setting in, Tooru shuts his laptop with a loud snap and rubs at his eyes tiredly. </p><p><em>Enough, Tooru,</em> he tries to reason with himself, waging a war in his head. <em>You have to forget about this. It will actually ruin your life.</em></p><p>He walks over, collapsing face-forward onto his bed. Yes, he needs to forget. It’s obvious that the angel isn’t going to reappear for no reason and if he doesn’t reappear, then maybe Tooru can just pretend like it was all some grief-ridden dream. </p><p>Why did the angel even appear in the first place? Tooru tries to remember even as his mind begins to drift away with sleep. </p><p>He came because of the lightbulb, to save Tooru from immediate danger. It’s probably his job to protect Tooru, keep him from harm, so of course he risked being spotted so that Tooru wouldn’t die. </p><p>Suddenly, Tooru shoots up to a sitting position, fully awake and eyes alight with a plan. If he can’t research and can’t magically force the angel to come back, <em>he’ll just have to make so that the angel has no choice but to save him again.</em></p><p>What a brilliant plan. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The first few times Tooru risks his life, the attempts are small and unsuccessful. </p><p>The first time, he steps into the crosswalk while the light is green, attempting to replicate Amaya’s mistake in his mother’s bedtime story. Right before his foot touches the white marks of the crosswalk however, a rough hand yanks him back. He turns around to face an elderly woman, about seventy, sporting a pink knitted hat and a large scowl. </p><p>“I know you kids think you’re invincible nowadays, but that doesn’t mean you can just walk into the street and expect not to get hit,” her voice yells at him, reprimanding, and a few people on his side chuckle at the display as she wags a finger at him. </p><p>“Sorry, ma’am, sorry” Tooru apologizes profusely, stuttering out a few more apologies as he bows deeply and his face turns red. </p><p>The woman tsks and forces him to help her cross the street when the crosswalk sign finally tells them that it is safe to go. </p><p>Tooru is too terrified of elderly women to try that one again. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next time, he considers putting the fork in the microwave, ultimately unable to go through with it. <em>He’d rather not die if he can help it.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The third time involves some taunting words to the biggest bully in school. He goads and goads the black-haired boy all throughout second period, saying some rather cruel words until he finally relents. </p><p>“Fine, you prick,” the bully spits at Tooru, “Meet me behind the cafeteria after fifth period.” The boy’s face morphs into the angriest one Tooru has ever seen. Despite himself, Tooru can’t help but feel some small twinges of fear settle in his stomach. </p><p>Still, he keeps teasing, keeps on his cheery mask. “Alright, alright, Haru-chan~” he sing songs. “It’s a date.”</p><p>A couple hours later, Tooru is on the ground, a livid ‘Haru-chan’ towering above him like a giant. The ring of students surrounding them - earlier chanting <em>‘fight, fight!’</em> - dissipate like ants scurrying out of an anthill when two teachers come to pull the fighting kids apart. </p><p>After it is said and done, all Tooru is left with is a bloody lower lip and a one-way ticket to detention, no angel to be seen. </p><p>As he sits in the detention room the next day after school, being watched over lazily by a teacher smacking on bubblegum, he contemplates his next move. He knows now that the situation has to be big enough for the angel to intervene. It has to be something important and actually life-threatening, none of this amateur stuff he’s been trying so far. </p><p>Time to come up with a plan. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><em>To anyone else</em>, he thinks idly, <em>this might appear to be a suicide attempt</em>. He can only hope and pray that his neighbors don’t notice and call the cops; he doesn’t think his father would be happy to hear that his son is about to jump off the roof. </p><p>If he’s completely honest with himself, this is one of his more terrible ideas. </p><p>The roof seems to be <em>miles</em> higher than Tooru anticipated, but he isn’t about to let that small fact stop him. Sucking in a deep breath, he closes his eyes and positions one foot off the ledge, about to fall so that an angel can catch him. </p><p>For a brief moment, doubt lingers in his mind. What if the angel <em>doesn’t</em> catch him and he ruins all chances at a volleyball career? There is a pretty good chance that the angel won’t help him; if his previous attempts are to be believed. </p><p>He opens one eye and looks down. It’s very high up, high enough that he could break a leg at the very least. Maybe he shoudn’t- </p><p>Tooru shakes off the thought before it settles. He needs to find out if his angel is still here - doesn’t think he can get it out of his mind until he’s sure. But if the angel doesn’t come after he jumps, then he’ll let it go. No more reckless acts, nothing. If the angel doesn’t come now, then that’s the end; he won’t try anymore. </p><p>Tooru takes one last breath and leans further forward, a second away from jumping, before a light weight settles in his hand, accompanied by the feeling of rough skin - a hand squeezing his own. </p><p>Eyes popping open, Tooru whips his head around, looking frantically for the angel, but he is nowhere to be seen. Instead, a single paper is clenched in his hands, crumpled a bit with Tooru’s tight grip.</p><p>The only thing on the paper is a single sentence, scrawled out in messy, slanted handwriting. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em>Come back inside and I’ll explain everything</em>.</p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru just about trips over his own feet in an attempt to run back inside as quickly as possible. Within minutes, he’s hanging his feet over the roof, halfway inside his bedroom window. </p><p>For a moment, there is a brief panic. <em>What if he dies before he can get back inside?</em> But that feeling fades once Tooru can swing himself back into his bedroom, landing with a loud thud onto his hardwood floor.</p><p>He looks around for any signs of the angel, but everything is the same. A gust of wind blows towards his desk, prompting Tooru to look there. He spots an opened notebook, one that Tooru has never seen before. He walks forward to investigate. </p><p>Another single sentence is written, this one elegant in its simplicity. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>What the fuck is wrong with you?</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Eyes widening in surprise, Tooru just stares down at the paper, unsure if he is supposed to respond or not. Can he write in this notebook or is this some sort of special angel paper? One that only angels can write in. Should he speak out loud, to his empty room? </p><p>More words appear on the paper, one letter at a time and just as messy as before. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Are you going to answer or not?</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Hesitantly, Tooru takes one of his ballpoint pens and he places it on the paper. His hands are shaking as he writes out a reply. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I don’t know. I think I’m going crazy. </p>
</blockquote><p>And he actually does. No matter how much he’s said over and over again that his angel was real, nothing could prepare him to actually <em>speaking with one.</em> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Angels are real. Now stop jumping off roofs and making my life difficult.</em>
  </p>
  <p>I’m sorry, I think? Sorry for troubling you?</p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru’s handwriting is less shaky now, neater and more like its normal self. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>You should be. It’s annoying.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru isn’t quite sure what he should say back to that. The angel’s writing appears again after a few seconds. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Now that you have your answer, I’m leaving.</em>
  </p>
  <p>WAIT -</p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru begins, writing quickly before the angel disappears again and all Tooru is left with is this notebook. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Why are you complaining? Isn’t it - saving me - supposed to be your job?</p>
</blockquote><p>There is a long pause and Tooru is worried that the angel has left already. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>I’m a guardian angel, not a babysitter angel.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Despite himself, Tooru lets out a surprised chuckle. What is that supposed to mean?</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I don’t see a difference between the two??</p>
  <p>
    <em>Of course <span class="u">you</span> don’t.</em>
  </p>
  <p>I think I should be offended. </p>
  <p>
    <em>I think you should be offended, too.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru chuckles again, the smile staying on his face as he writes out a reply. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Can I ask what my angel’s name is? </p>
</blockquote><p>Another long pause. Tooru is worried he’s broken some sort of rule, some communication faux pas that will make the angel stop talking to him. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Or is that against the rules? Sorry! I didn’t mean to pry or anything!!</p>
  <p>
    <em>I don’t think I can tell you.</em>
  </p>
  <p>So it <span class="u">is</span> against the rules?</p>
  <p>
    <em>Well, no, but, I mean…</em>
  </p>
  <p>I think you should tell me. It can’t be that big of a deal, right??</p>
</blockquote><p>A very long pause follows. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Iwaizumi. My name is Iwaizumi. </em>
  </p>
</blockquote>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I forgot how hard it is to format the messages between them... hopefully this looks okay!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hyousuke~” the woman’s voice rings out throughout the house, bright and shrill. Tooru tries to cover his ear but it’s no use; her awful voice would be distinguishable from miles away. Her giggles can be heard clearly from his second-story room too, puncturing her sentences every few seconds. </p><p>Tooru has no clue what the woman could be laughing at. His father doesn’t have a humorous bone in his body, never has and never will. Every attempt that the man had made at a joke since Tooru was five had made him visibly cringe. </p><p>Then again, the nameless woman probably doesn’t care a lick about <em>'</em><em>Hyousuke-chan’s’</em> personality. His money would be more than enough to deal with his shortcomings. </p><p>Tooru lays his head on the mahogany surface of his desk and lets out a loud, lingering groan, making the noise so loud in the hopes that the lovers would hear it and leave. </p><p>But, the giggling just continues and five minutes later, Tooru’s patience has just about reached its end. He’s about two seconds away from stomping down the stairs and screeching at the two to <em>just shut the hell up already.</em> Or maybe to just <em>get a hotel and get the fuck out of his mother’s house</em>, but he has a feeling his father wouldn’t appreciate that one. </p><p>Then, the blue notebook flutters open a few feet away, pages turning to the next blank page. Tooru visibly perks up as messy writing begins to appear onto the page, one letter at a time. <em>Iwaizumi.</em></p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>What’s wrong?</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru smiles fondly to his right, where Iwaizumi must be floating. All earlier annoyance vanishes with his angel’s appearance and Tooru feels himself settle back into the desk chair, slumping back into his most relaxed pose. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Nothing. Just another one of my father’s women. This one won’t stop giggling and it’s driving me crazy</p>
  <p>
    <em>How many does that make it now? Four? Five?</em>
  </p>
  <p>Six, Iwa-chan. Please keep up.</p>
</blockquote><p>The messages had become a regular occurrence for the two ever since that first time - communication between a boy and his angel. The rate increased gradually. First, it was once a week, then a message every few days, to finally every day after school, with long talks going for hours until Tooru’s eyes finally closed in sleep.</p><p>Tooru ended up buying a thick, bounded notebook, where he keeps all their conversations to look back at later and smile. Inside the front cover, taped up crudely, is the first conversation they ever had. </p><p>Iwaizumi learns about Tooru, about his likes and dislikes and his biggest fears. Tooru learns that Iwaizumi gets angry easily and Tooru’s new favorite way to pass the time is by making some comment to rile him up. </p><p>For an angel, Iwaizumi is a real hothead. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Her perfume is giving me a headache.</p>
  <p><em>How is that any different from your cologne? That stuff gives me a headache every day. You don’t see me complaining about it.</em> </p>
</blockquote><p>“Rude, Iwa-chan,” Tooru tsks without looking up. He feels the air rustle by his head and can’t help smiling back. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Shouldn’t you be up in heaven? Didn’t you say there was a “hearing” or something important like that?</p>
  <p><em>Boring. Didn’t want to go</em>.</p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru can’t contain the self-satisfied smirk that pops up on his face. The air rustles by his head before Tooru even puts his pen to paper. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Am I crazy, or did Iwa-chan miss me?</p>
</blockquote><p>There is a long pause that fills itself up with Tooru’s smug smile. The air is silent until finally:</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>You’re crazy.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru lets out a loud laugh but decides not to pursue the joke any further. He loves teasing Iwaizumi, but he’d rather not have the angel mad at him tonight. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I have a question for you. </p>
  <p>
    <em>Shoot.</em>
  </p>
  <p>What’s it like up there? </p>
</blockquote><p>It’s a question that Tooru has been on his mind ever since the two had begun communicating. What is the ultimate paradise like; is it as perfect as it’s cracked up to be? Iwaizumi’s response is as succinct as ever. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Like you’d expect - chairs made out of clouds and angels flying around. </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru rolls his eyes, only somewhat exaggerating his reaction. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Iwa-chaan! Are descriptions too much to ask for? </p>
  <p>
    <em>Yes, actually. As I've told you time and time again, we <span class="u">aren't supposed to be talking.</span></em>
  </p>
  <p>Iwa-chan is such a wet blanket. You <strong>love</strong> talking to me. </p>
</blockquote><p>There is no response and Tooru just tilts his head to the right, sticking out a tongue at the angel he knows is hovering over his bed. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Admit it. Our talks are the one bright spot in your dreary angel day~</p>
</blockquote><p>In response, a strong wind gust flows from one side of Tooru's face to the other. His head rocks with the wind slightly, and neatly combed hair turns into a tangled brown mess. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>I want to throw something at you, but I guess I'll have to settle for this instead. </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>To punctuate his message, Iwaizumi blows one more burst of wind Tooru's way, this one lighter and sputtering, like the sporadic breaths accompanying laughter. </p><p>Tooru tries to scowl at his angel, but ends up laughing instead. More sputtering wind blows next to Tooru's head and he can picture Iwaizumi's laugh - in his head it's deep and boisterous, filling up the empty quiet of Tooru's bedroom. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I wish I could see you.</p>
</blockquote><p>The angel doesn’t respond. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I could you, know. I saw you when you saved me. </p>
  <p>
    <em>No, Tooru.</em>
  </p>
  <p>And why not?</p>
  <p>
    <em>It’s dangerous. It’s reckless. It’s not what angels are supposed to do. </em>
  </p>
  <p>Why are you such a stickler for the rules, Iwa-chan? I just want a face to put to the name. </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru bites his lip and knocks his pen against the chapped surface a couple of times when Iwaizumi doesn't answer. Obviously he's getting nowhere with this - Iwa-chan would never <em>actually</em> show himself. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Fine, fine. Describe your appearance in a short sentence. </p>
</blockquote><p>Upon further thought, he adds,</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>And be descriptive! No one word sentences or anything like that! </p>
  <p>
    <em><strong>Fine</strong>. God, you're so annoying.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I’m</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>The word appears alone for a few seconds. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Shit. I don’t know Tooru. What am I supposed to say?</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru rolls his eyes, but decides to help the poor, socially incompetent angel out. Best to start slow, like he’s speaking to a child - and wait, <em>Iwa-chan isn’t a child is he?</em> Maybe he’s only, like, <em>five</em> in angel years.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Start simple: how old are you?</p>
  <p>
    <em>You know that already.</em>
  </p>
  <p>Nooo I don’t. You always avoid talking about yourself, Iwa-chan! It’s been three months and I know <span class="u">nothing</span> about you!!</p>
  <p>
    <em>I’m nineteen. Just turned it a couple weeks ago.</em>
  </p>
  <p>Is that in human or angel years? How old are you really?</p>
</blockquote><p>He sees Iwaizumi responding, his words fading onto the page, but then Tooru realizes what Iwaizumi has said. Quickly, he writes over Iwaizumi’s words before they have a chance to totally appear - their version of interrupting each other. </p><p>He doesn’t have to see Iwaizumi’s face (or even have an inkling of what it looks like) to know he’s frowning. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><span class="u">WAIT!</span> YOU DIDN’T TELL ME IT WAS YOUR <span class="u">BIRTHDAY</span>!!</p>
  <p>
    <em>So?</em>
  </p>
  <p>So, <span class="u">so??</span> We should have celebrated!! What the heck, Iwa-chan?? You’re terrible.</p>
  <p>
    <em>You’re being particularly annoying right now, do you know that?</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>“Iwa-chan,” Tooru whines loudly. Distantly, he can hear the woman downstairs stop giggling, his dad saying something to her in a voice that seems louder, closer, than before, but Tooru pays it no mind - there are much more important things to deal with right now, mainly-</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>How do angels celebrate birthdays in heaven? </p>
  <p>
    <em>Why does it matter?</em>
  </p>
  <p>You are literally the most difficult person I’ve ever had the displeasure of dealing with. Just tell me.</p>
  <p>
    <em>Well, <span class="u">technically</span> I’m not a person at all, so…</em>
  </p>
  <p><span class="u">Iwa-chan</span>. I will find where you are floating and slam a volleyball at your face. </p>
</blockquote><p>He feels the rustling air near his face again - Iwaizumi’s laughter. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I’m not kidding. </p>
</blockquote><p>The rustling continues, more forcefully and Tooru is just feeling the corners of his lips perk up when suddenly, his bedroom door bursts open, revealing the stern face of his father under the wooden frame. The man pauses for a moment, a frown crinkling up the skin between his eyebrows as he stares at his son. </p><p>Tooru realizes that has been caught with a dumb smile plastered on his face, grinning at the air next to him like a fool. He arranges his face into bored neutrality, but he already knows it’s too late. </p><p>His father has caught him acting strange again. Tooru’s going to get yet another lecture. <em>Great.</em></p><p>“Tooru, what are you doing?” </p><p>Tooru sighs dramatically, turning towards his desk to look at the calculus textbook he has open - the one he sets up as an alibi just in case this sort of thing happens; which it does. Frequently. </p><p>“Nothing, dad. Just finishing up some homework,” he taps twice at a problem and bends over the textbook as if totally focused on it. “This one has been stumping me for ten minutes already.”</p><p>His father isn’t buying it. “I heard you say something from downstairs. Yui noticed it too, asked me to check on you,” he levels a serious look at Tooru. “I think she’s worried. She heard you saying something strange the other day.”</p><p>Tooru lowers his head to the desk, covers his face by burying it into the crook of his elbow, and rolls his eyes so far up that it hurts. “Well, god forbid, <em>Yui </em>finds <em>me</em> uncomfortable,” he mumbles under his breath, low enough that the words blend together, indecipherable to his father’s ears. </p><p>His father sighs, obviously not caring enough to ask what his son said. “Tooru,” the tired resignation is obvious in his voice. Tooru refuses to lift his head and see the disappointed look he knows is on his father’s face.</p><p>“Why can’t you just-“ there is a loaded pause. He tries again, “it has been four,” he trails off and then sighs. “Never mind. I’m going out with Yui and I won’t be back until late. I expect you to be in bed, <em>sleeping</em>, by the time I get home.”</p><p>His father waits for Tooru to reply, but when it becomes evident that Tooru is not going to answer - not going to lift his head up from the crook of his elbow - the man leaves without another word. </p><p>Deep downstairs Tooru hears the excited babble of the woman, <em>Yui</em>, as the two pack up their things to leave. The deep rumble of a car pours in from Tooru’s open bedroom window, and then they’re gone. </p><p>Tooru still hasn’t lifted his head. </p><p>He sits in silence for a few minutes, mind black and blank and unfeeling, until a soft breeze rustles through his hair, reminding him that he’s not alone. </p><p>Tooru lifts his head and blinks a few times as if waking up from a dream. Hazy vision clears and then he’s back in his room. The moment is over as quickly as it had started. </p><p>Grinning sheepishly over his shoulder, Tooru hovers his pen over the notebook page. He’s about to write an apology to Iwa-chan - a <em>j</em><em>ust zoned out for a minute there</em> or a <em>Haha, I’m so spacey sometimes, sorry!</em> But, Iwaizumi beats him to the punch. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Are you okay?</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru stares at the message for a few heartbeats, uncomprehending. He just looks at the message, waits for the words to sink in and make sense. Finally, they do. Then he’s blinking hard and tears are coming down his cheeks, falling from his eyes and <em>oh, god. This is so embarrassing.</em> </p><p>Tooru covers his face with his hands, crying even harder as the tears soak through his fingers and spill onto his jeans. He doesn’t even know why he’s crying; all he knows is that he can’t stop. </p><p>A blanket slides over his shoulders and wraps around his body loosely. Tooru brings it in tighter against his body and curls up in himself, hiding his head under the blanket so Iwa-chan doesn’t have to see his nasty crying. </p><p>A hand rubs up and down his back, warm and comforting and soft and Tooru knows that he could come up from under the blanket, maybe see Iwaizumi appear before him, but instead, he just curls up farther into himself, lets himself settle into two strong arms that wrap around him in an embrace. </p><p>Sobbing loudly and unattractively, Tooru returns the hug, limbs, and head still covered by the blanket. </p><p>Iwaizumi’s hand never stops moving, never stops comforting and Tooru is never more grateful for his guardian angel than he is at that moment. </p><p>He doesn’t know what he would do without Iwaizumi, doesn’t know how he’d survive this alone. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Later, when Tooru has finally stopped sobbing and is curled up under the comforter on his bed, notebook in lap and the soft light of a candle illuminating the pages, Iwaizumi will finally answer his questions. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Human years. And clouds.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru blinks at the page, unsure what Iwaizumi is trying to say. He’d been so close to sleep just a moment ago, but the words bring him back to reality. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Huh?</p>
  <p>
    <em>I’m answering your annoying questions from before: <span class="u">human years and clouds.</span></em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru screws up his face in genuine, sleepy, confusion. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Yup, still no idea. Underlining doesn’t provide any extra information, surprising as that might be. </p>
  <p>
    <em>I’m nineteen in human years. Angels age at the same rate as humans until twenty-five. Then, they stop, forever young.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru yawns loudly. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I can’t picture you young. Iwa-chan is so grumpy that he should only stop aging at his true form - a wrinkly, old man. </p>
  <p>
    <em>Oi</em>
  </p>
  <p>What about the clouds?</p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru’s eyes blink heavily, stayed closed a second longer than usual as they grow heavier with sleep. When he opens them again, a particularly long message from Iwaizumi awaits him. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>The birthday celebrations. The clouds in heaven turn a certain color, reflecting our age. They stay like that for a week until fading. Nineteen was a pale blue.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>“That’s so pretty,” Tooru mumbles, a soft smile sliding on his face. A few moments later, sleep overtakes him and his eyes flutter closed, the smile staying on his face as his mind fills with sweet dreams of colored clouds and angel parties. </p><p>He wouldn’t be able to see it even if he had been awake, but in the darkness - after the candle is blown out by the soft rustling of something stirring up the wind - Iwaizumi has an equally soft smile on his face. </p><p>Tooru will never know that Iwaizumi watches him for a lingering moment, a few more lingering moments than he should, before zipping up into the air, back home to the clouds. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Tooru likes to push Iwaizumi in a variety of ways. He likes seeing the angel get mad - it makes him teasing and fun to joke around. He likes pushing the angel with witty banter and funny one-liners that he <em>knows</em> the angel finds hilarious (even if he won’t admit it). </p><p>But the one thing he tries not to do too often is push the angel for information.</p><p>Iwa-chan is reserved when it comes to angels; Tooru thinks it has to do with some ancient laws prohibiting him from “exposing angel secrets.” It’s dumb. Like anyone would ever believe him if he blabbed about guardian angels and heaven. </p><p>But Tooru still does ask Iwaizumi questions - when the timing seems right. He’s managed to squeeze a few teeny facts from the angel. Like how some angels decorate their wings with ornate pieces of fabric or the way that some of the more adventurous beings <em>pierce them.</em> Tooru can't imagine getting his ear pierced, let alone an extremity. He's also learned about random customs, rules, but never in full - Iwaizumi is always tight-lipped about those.</p><p>It’s a few weeks after the crying incident when Tooru asks the angel his toughest question yet. It’s on a Wednesday night after school, a fairly unimportant day. Tooru’s <em>supposed</em> to be working on his calculus homework, but keeps zoning in and out, skirting along the edges of consciousness. He really wants to take a nap, but Iwa-chan won’t let him. </p><p>They’re not really talking, more just enjoying the silent presence of each other. Tooru feels comforted just knowing the angel is there, even if he’s unable to see him. </p><p>Every so often Tooru doodles a random drawing in his math notebook - flowers and volleyballs and alien heads - and next to it always appears a chiding word from Iwaizumi, telling him to get back to work. </p><p>He’s drawing a stick figure with angel wings and a deep frown when a question pops into his mind. He looks under his homework for his “angel communication notebook,” finally finding it after minutes of rummaging through clutter. He taps at the paper for a few moments before gathering the courage to ask his question.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Have you seen my mother up there?</p>
</blockquote><p>There is a long pause. For a second, Tooru doesn't think that Iwaizumi will answer him at all. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Yes. I visited her once, a few months ago.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p><em>Oh</em>, Tooru thinks. That’s… surprising, to say the least. He wants to know how that would work exactly - do angels and people all live together in heaven or are there separate areas? What did he mean 'visit?' Are there houses? </p><p>But those aren’t the questions that Tooru needs to be asking right now. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>What happened? What did she say? Is she -</p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru knocks his pen against the paper a few times, trying to come up with the right word. Not ‘okay,’ because of course she’s okay; she’s in <em>heaven</em>. Not ‘happy’ either, because what can Tooru do if she isn’t? Not ‘safe,’ because duh, and not ‘better’ because that makes it sounds like she was in a bad place before. </p><p>He ends up crossing out the two words and writing an easier question next to it. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>How is she?</p>
</blockquote><p>Iwaizumi doesn’t answer for a while and when he does, he lifts the notebook up and off the desk. It floats a couple of feet above Tooru’s bed - where Tooru assumes Iwaizumi is floating - and stays there as Iwaizumi scribbles onto the pages. </p><p>It seems like ages later when the notebook is finally placed back on his desk. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>She’s doing good, happy even. She found your grandparents and lives with them. Their house is nice. She said that it is exactly like the house she grew up in.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru pictures that house, thinking back on memories that seem like lifetimes ago now. </p><p>The house was blue, small, and surrounded by colorful flowers and twisting vines climbing up the sides like something in a romantic painting -  his mother absolutely loved visiting it. He can sort of remember his grandparents’ smiles, but it was so long ago that everything seems fuzzy. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>I visited her after you tried to throw yourself off the roof (she said you’re an idiot, by the way) and we talked about a lot of things. Mostly about you but also about your father.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>She gave me a note - told me to give it to you when you could talk about her without crying. I was planning on giving it to you soon. Do you think you’re ready for it?</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru blinks, a bit overloaded, as he processes the information. He thinks on Iwaizumi’s question. <em>Is he okay?</em> He’s not sure. </p><p>But when he takes note of himself, he is surprised to find that he no longer feels that crushing pain in his chest at the thought of his mother. </p><p>He’s still sad of course, but not in the excruciating way of before. Nearly thinking her name would have him bursting into tears months ago, but now, he feels a fondness and the idea that he wants to talk about her; she was amazing - she <em>deserves</em> to be talked about. </p><p>He’s not exactly sure when he started feeling better - not sure when he begun to feel like himself again - but he knows that it has everything to do with Iwaizumi. </p><p>Tooru hums, eyes dry and mouth quirked up in a small smile. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I’m ready, Iwa-chan. Lay it on me. </p>
</blockquote><p>There is a lengthy pause and Tooru readies himself, scooting his butt in his chair and jiggling a leg back and forth. He’s more than ready: he’s excited. </p><p>Knowing his mother, it’s going to be a great letter: funny and smart, loving but teasing.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>I don’t</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>The words halt for another moment before picking up again. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>I don’t actually have it on me right now.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru can’t help the way that he groans, or the way he visibly deflates, all the energy leaving his body in one split second. </p><p>“Iwa-chaaan,” he drags the last syllable out. “C’mon, what kind of guardian angel are you?”</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>How was I supposed to know I’d need it today? Idiot, I can’t predict the future.</em>
  </p>
  <p>That’s no excuse! I should fire you. </p>
  <p>
    <em>I should quit.</em>
  </p>
  <p>As if! You’d be lost without me. I’m your sole reason for existing~</p>
  <p>
    <em>Angels don’t just pop out of the clouds when a kid needs us. We have <span class="u">jobs</span>. I could make a career change to get away from you.</em>
  </p>
  <p>I’m reading the words you’re saying, Iwa-chan, but I don’t believe them for a second. What other job could you possibly have?</p>
  <p>
    <em>I’ve always wanted to be a soldier.</em>
  </p>
  <p>Now <span class="u">I know</span> you’re lying! How are there <span class="u">soldiers</span> in heaven?</p>
</blockquote><p>He can practically feel the air move with Iwaizumi’s shrug. Maybe it does move - it’s hard to tell. He’s gotten so used to the wind accompanying the angel’s movements that it seems normal at this point. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>They’re more of a precaution that anything else.</em>
  </p>
  <p>You’re so full of it, Iwa-chan. </p>
</blockquote><p>They continue like that for a while - prodding, teasing - and when Tooru’s head hits the pillow hours later, the words finally hit him. </p><p>His mother is happy. She’s happy and okay and safe. </p><p>A small smile graces his lips as he floats into unconsciousness. When he dreams, it’s of small blue houses and smiling grandmothers with plates stacked high with cookies and his mother laughing as she sits on the grass - resting back on her palms and angling her face up at the sun. </p><p>He hasn’t had the nightmares in a long time. He hasn’t had nights filled with the image of his mother’s body crumpling into something bloody and inhuman as she is run over by a white suburban in ages - but he can’t remember a time since her death that his dreams were so <em>happy</em>. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>At school, he is practically humming with energy. A few students give him weird looks when he bolts out of the classroom the moment the last bell rings. </p><p>And when he gets home, the letter is sitting on his desk, tucked inside his and Iwaizumi’s notebook. A note above it is scrawled in Iwaizumi’s messy handwriting. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Sorry I couldn’t be here. Important angel stuff. Here is the letter.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Next to the note is a small smiley face, complete with uneven lines and an uncomfortable-looking grin. It’s so endearing that Tooru almost chokes on his own smile. </p><p>Iwa-chan is honestly the most adorable thing and he has no idea. </p><p>The letter itself is small and wrapped up in a pink envelope. On the outside is his mother’s handwriting, exactly how he remembers it. There is only one word written in her small, neat lettering: Tooru.</p><p>Carefully and with hands that are only slightly shaking, Tooru opens the envelope. He tries to keep it mostly intact because he likes the way his mom has written his name. </p><p> The letter itself isn’t terribly long, only filling up about 3/4 of a page. But it doesn’t matter how long it is - these are his mother’s words. His heart clenches in nervous anticipation as he begins reading. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Hi Tooru, <br/><br/>I’m not sure when this letter is going to reach you, but I hope it’s not too soon after I’ve written it. I wouldn’t want you getting over me too fast. <em>(bad joke, I know. I can practically feel you rolling your eyes at me. Stop it, you unruly boy.)</em><br/><br/>I wasn’t quite sure what to write at first, because what can I say? I’m dead and it’s terrible that I’m so far away from you. But I’m glad you’re doing better, baby. I told Iwaizumi not to give this letter to you until you were ready so I’m assuming you’re in a good place right now. I know how emotional you can be and I’m happy that you’re happy again. <br/><br/>As an aside: Iwaizumi is absolutely lovely. He’s sweet and charming and I could not have picked a better guardian angel for you if I tried. <br/><br/>Heaven is beautiful, Tooru. I don’t even have the words to describe it. It feels like I am on earth, but I’m not, I’m floating. There are clouds under my feet and the sun shines so beautifully overhead. Everyone smiles here, including your grandparents. It was surprising seeing them at first, because they are young. And by young, I mean <span class="u">young</span>. Your grandfather is twenty five and your grandmother is twenty. They look so much better than me, it’s very embarrassing. <br/><br/>I want the world for you, Tooru. When I first came to heaven, I was so upset. I was upset that I wouldn’t be able to see you grow old, wouldn’t see the partner you’ll marry or the babies you’ll have. But then I realized something. <br/><br/>I don’t need to see any of that. I know how wonderful you are going to turn out, how amazing you already are and how amazing you will grow to be. I have absolute faith in you, baby. You are going to turn out incredible. <em>(That’s mostly on account of my genes. You’re welcome, by the way).</em> <br/><br/>I will always root for you Tooru and I want you to know that I will be your constant cheerleader up here in the sky, no matter how much space separates us. And believe me, I will always be thinking of you. <br/><br/>I want constant updates from that handsome angel. Don’t be too hard on him, but tease him often. He’s adorable when he’s blushing, so think of that even when you can’t see him. <br/><br/>Please take care of your father, and don’t be too mad at him when he moves on. I want you both to be happy, in whatever form that takes. You will both be so happy and you will both be each other’s support as I’m in heaven. <br/><br/>And dang it, now I’m crying. I hope you don’t inherit this crying gene from me as well - it’s a terrible thing Tooru. I’m wheezing into a tissue made of clouds right now and it’s very ineffective. <br/><br/>I love you so, so, so much, Tooru. I love you, I love you, I love you. <br/><br/>From, <br/>Your gorgeous mother</p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru has definitely inherited that crying gene, because as his eyes reach the last word, he finds them to be crying up a flood. Distantly, he is glad that Iwaizumi isn’t here to witness this. </p><p>But Tooru’s tears aren’t just sad. They’re happy, sad, and relieved, all mixed together in these loud sobs the wrack through his entire body. He’s not broken, he’s okay. And his mother is okay. </p><p>She loves him and she will never stop loving him. He loves her and will never stop loving her. </p><p>In a moment that seems separate from time, he feels the last little crack in his chest mend. He’s whole, has been the entire time, but he finally feels it. </p><p><em>Ah, what would he do without his guardian angel?</em> Tooru wonders. He imagines a reality where Iwaizumi hadn't saved him, one where the angel did not contact him and just watched silently off to the side. Tooru would likely have broken down, buckling under his father's words and become a husk of himself. That kind of reality is too painful to imagine for even a moment, so Tooru casts the thoughts to a deep corner of his mind. It doesn't matter; Iwaizumi is here now, and Tooru is happy. He'll always be happy as long as his angel is nearby.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>:(</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Inexplicably, <span class="u">worryingly</span>, it’s a week until Tooru finally hears from Iwaizumi again. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Hello.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru nearly falls out of his chair when the word appears in the notebook. He had been listening to music and trying his hardest not to pace back in forth in front of the notebook when Iwaizumi finally reappears. Immediately, Tooru is in front of the bound paper, huddled over it, and writing out a reply.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Iwa-chan what the hell? !! Where were you?? </p>
  <p>
    <em>Angel stuff. Sorry I was gone so long.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p><em>Angel stuff,</em> Tooru scoffs. Only his bullheaded angel would downplay going missing for so long. He is sure to show his annoyance by writing so hard in his notebook that the pen almost passes through. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I was worried you disappeared. What kind of angel stuff takes <span class="u">a whole week??</span></p>
</blockquote><p>There is a long pause, and Tooru is about to huff again and throw a balled piece of paper in the area where he vaguely assumes Iwaizumi might be floating when the angel finally responds. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Hearings. They happen once every few months and they are a pain. A lot of paperwork.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru supposes he will have to let it slide then. ‘Hearing’ sounds a lot like ‘official work’, which sounds a lot like ‘homework’, which reminds Tooru that he has been neglecting his studies since Iwaizumi vanished - (not that he was ever the most diligent student anyways.) He eyes his stack of paperwork and books deposited on the floor next to his desk, quickly flitting his eyes away before Iwaizumi can catch him. He already suffered through enough lectures from his father; he doesn’t need to add Iwaizumi to the mix too. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Well, I’m glad you’re back - even if I’m mad at you for leaving in the first place.</p>
  <p>
    <em>Yeah, yeah, yeah.</em>
    <br/>
    <em>Fill me in on what I missed.</em>
  </p>
  <p>Well… </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru tries to recover everything that Iwaizumi missed, but he finds it hard to remember. The week had blurred together, and between worrying about Iwaizumi and trying to prevent his father from seeing him act any weirder than normal (aka, asking if Iwaizumi was there every five minutes), he found he didn’t do much else. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I made a new treat for Takahashi. <span class="u">Macaroons</span>, Iwa-chan. Do you know how hard those are to make??</p>
  <p>
    <em>I don’t know. Very?</em>
  </p>
  <p>Yes, very!!! Took me like a million tries, but when I heard he never tasted one,</p>
  <p>I obviously took it upon myself to introduce my favorite treat. He said they were delicious. </p>
  <p>
    <em>That’s surprisingly nice of you. </em>
  </p>
  <p>Don’t pretend like you don't know that I am an incredibly giving person. </p>
  <p>
    <em>Sure.</em>
    <br/>
    <em>I’ll pretend like you don’t swipe extra milk bread from the lunch lady  everyday when she’s distracted by your smile..</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru squawks in protest, but Iwaizumi just keeps writing. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Or that you flirt extra hard near Valentine’s day so you can receive more chocolates and then hide them from me.</em>
    <br/>
    <em>Or even that-</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru writes over any appearing words, his face hot and embarrassed, but he can’t help the smile threatening to break free any moment. He missed Iwaizumi, missed <em>this</em>, so hard that it makes his chest ache. He pointedly doesn’t think about how weird or dependent that might sound. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I told you those in confidence to confess my sins! </p>
  <p>
    <em>Dumbass, I’m not Jesus. What’s the point in confessing to me?</em>
  </p>
  <p>I don’t know. I thought you could put in a good word with someone high up in heaven for me. </p>
  <p>
    <em>I could definitely give some words, but I don’t know how ‘good’ they would be.</em>
  </p>
  <p>Rude, Iwa-chan. Very rude. </p>
</blockquote><p> There is a gust of wind near Tooru’s head and Tooru can’t help the bright laugh that escapes his chest, high and bubbly. All the tension from the past week has completely left his body and he feels light, <em>happy</em>.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I really missed you. </p>
</blockquote><p>The words are honest, vulnerable,<em> so, so true.</em></p><p>This last week was unbearable. He was on edge all the time, couldn’t pay attention in class, snapping at the smallest annoyances, and his father had noticed. At least once (and sometimes twice) a day, his father would stand in the doorway, lecturing Tooru about responsibility and Tooru had done nothing but tune him out. Eventually, the man had decided that, instead of dealing with his son, he would just pull longer nights at the station. That is where he is now, almost 8pm, working on a case in the office instead of spending time at home. </p><p>But that doesn’t matter, not if Iwaizumi is back. </p><p>So lost in his thoughts, Tooru doesn’t realize there has been a pause until it stretches far too long to be natural. He has a stupid worry that Iwaizumi has floated away, embarrassed by his words. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Are you still there?</p>
  <p>
    <em>Yes I am.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>There is another long, charged pause. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Iwa-chan??</p>
  <p>
    <em>I’m going to give you something, okay? Just be patient for once in your life.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>A box floats down. It is wrapped up in light blue paper that shimmers as it falls down gracefully under Tooru's harsh artificial bedroom lights. A white ribbon is wrapped neatly around and tied up in a large bow. </p><p>Hesitantly, Tooru takes the package.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>What is it?</p>
  <p>
    <span class="u"> <em>Open it.</em> </span>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru eyes the package suspiciously but picks it up nonetheless. </p><p>Tooru lifts up the top and inside are two items that look like artifacts in a museum - or maybe antiques, passed down through generations before him. First, there is a pen, a quill, its white feather almost iridescent and shining under Tooru’s bedroom lights. It is decorated in gold which weighs heavily in Tooru’s hand. </p><p>Next to it is a pot of ink, also adorned with gold. The color is a dark, midnight black, Tooru guesses, and he wants to stick the quill into the post to test it, but he also doesn’t want to waste it, to use it on something that isn’t important. </p><p>Tooru’s attention is drawn away from the delicate presents when he catches Iwaizumi’s words slowly appearing in his notebook. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>The ink will never run out. It refills itself whenever you reach the bottom. And the feather is.. special I guess, but the real magic is in the ink.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>“They’re beautiful," Tooru breathes. He flips the feather gingerly in one hand, admiring its beauty, running a finger along the side. “Thank you, but why?"</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>A goodbye present. Or something.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p><em>A- a what?</em> Tooru's heartbeat skips and he feels a cold chill pass over his body. But he refuses to overreact. He huddles over the notebook and forces a small, teasing smile on his face as he writes. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Are you going on a vacation? Where would an angel even go to travel?</p>
</blockquote><p>It is a while before Iwaizumi answers and as the moments tick by, Tooru realizes. Iwaizumi is leaving him. But he can't- not now- he can't do this to Tooru-</p><p>"You can't leave, Iwa-chan. I won't let you."</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em>It's not up to you. I've been... relocated. I just wanted to tell you before I left</em>.</p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru’s voice is loud, hard with anger, and he doesn’t bother to write in the notebook, not if Iwaizumi is going to lay this on him <em>now</em>. "That's bullshit. You can't- not after everything you've done for me. Tell your angels that they can find someone else to relocate.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>It doesn't work like that, Tooru.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>"Then <em>make</em> it work like that."</p><p>Iwaizumi seems to have some trouble responding. He starts a few different sentences only to cross them out and start all over again. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>I don't</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>I wish that</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>We can't just</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Finally, Iwaizumi seems to settle on something he likes, and the words hit Tooru in the chest, <em>hard</em>. So hard that he has trouble breathing and the room around him grows fuzzy around the edges. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>I don't want to do this anymore.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru blinks for a few seconds before hunching down in front of his notebook, pen in hand. There is no way that his angel is serious right now. There has to be another reason. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>You're lying to me. </p>
  <p>
    <em>No. I'm not. It's too hard to keep up. The angels are going to find out. I don't <span class="u">want</span> to keep doing this.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru takes a deep breath, steadying himself. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Iwaizumi, stop lying. Tell me what's really going on. Maybe I can help. </p>
  <p>
    <em>You've done enough. Now just let me go. Don't get angry, and let me leave.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru shakes his head, willing the pinpricks of tears away before they have the chance to fall. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>No. You can't do this. </p>
</blockquote><p>There is a pause, the stopping and starting of a sentence in Iwaiuzimi’s scratchy handwriting. Tooru waits for him to finish and blinks hard and fast to keep his vision from blurring. He needs to see what’s happening, to find a way to stop the future in its tracks. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>You must have seen this coming, Tooru. It’s natural, for an angel to move on to the next child.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru shakes his head, refusing to believe the words. It’s lies, and Tooru doesn’t know why Iwaizumi is being forced to lie, but they’ll find a way out of it together. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>You’re being forced to leave aren't you?? Please be honest with me. </p>
</blockquote><p>Iwaizumi continues his thought like Tooru hasn’t even written anything. It seems like he is voicing his deepest thoughts out loud, like they have been weighing on him for a long time, and they finally made it onto their notebook pages. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p><em>I have been by your side for years, for <span class="u">seventeen</span> years. I wouldn’t trade them for anything, </em> <em>but that is much longer than most children get. Do you want to guess how many years my friend stayed with her child?</em></p>
  <p>No I don’t want to know, I just - </p>
  <p>
    <em>Eight years. That’s all they got. I'm really thankful that we met, and I hope that I have made a positive impact in your life.</em>
  </p>
  <p>You <span class="u">have</span>, Iwa-chan. That's why you can’t leave.</p>
  <p><em>That’s why I <span class="u">have</span> to leave, Tooru. You are strong enough now - I can see that. The way you handled the letter </em> <em>and the week without me have proved it.</em></p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru realizes he has been shaking his head for the last few lines, didn’t register it until now. His face is wet and when he lifts a hand to his cheek, he finds it left slick with tears. </p><p>“Iwa-chan, I-“ </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>I’m leaving, and though it's probably not fair, can I give you one more gift?</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Tooru nods, sniffling, because what else can he do? He is powerless to stop Iwaizumi from leaving, can’t even see an arm to grab him at. There is no way to force the angel to stay, even though he wishes it with all his might. </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Close your eyes, okay? I mean it, no cheating.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>A rush of breath leaves Tooru's lips, a loud sigh. The angel is bossy even in his goodbyes. The action is so <em>Iwaizumi</em> that it makes Tooru’s heart clench painfully in his chest. He shuts his eyes obediently. </p><p>“Yes, I promise.” </p><p>There is the sound of rustling, and the crunching of papers near Tooru’s feet, but he keeps his eyes closed. It is hard, and usually, Tooru would have peeked by now, the temptation being too strong, but for Iwaizumi, he’ll listen. He’d listen forever to the angel if he had the chance. </p><p>But he won’t, will he? </p><p>Then, there is a strong set of arms wrapped around him, the pressure gentle, but very much <em>there</em>. Without hesitation, Tooru lifts his arms to return the embrace, tucks his head to the angel’s chest to hide his tears and feels the arms tighten in response. He feels the air swirl around them, charged, weightless, and he instinctively knows they are floating high in his room. Still, he keeps his eyes closed, knowing that this is the most he will ever get. </p><p>There is a feather-light pressure on the top of his head, so quick that Tooru could have missed it. <em>A kiss.</em> Tooru starts to openly cry, though it’s useless. He can’t stop anything, can’t change a thing. Can’t stop his best friend from leaving him forever. </p><p>When Tooru opens his eyes, his room is empty and the pressure of the embrace is gone. He reaches in front of him uselessly, his hands falling to his sides when they reach nothing but air. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Everything after that is a blur, and when he tries to think back on that day, Tooru won’t be able to remember what exactly he did afterwards. All he knows is that this <em>hurts</em>. It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does; he and Iwaizumi had only talked for a little over half a year, but when his angel leaves, it feels like a part of Tooru leaves with him. </p><p>It’s not as dramatic as when his mother died. He still smiles, still laughs, and is able to get through life much like he did before. His father stops bothering him about his weird behavior because he stops having weird behavior. </p><p>His life goes back to the normal (well, as normal as Tooru can be) and his popularity surges back – he goes out with some fan club members and reconnects with friends that he fell out of touch with when he had ignored them for his angel. He even manages to push Iwaizumi off to the side of his mind. Because forgetting is easier; forgetting is painless.</p><p>But every so often, he’ll find himself in a weird situation and think: <em>what would Iwaizumi say about this?</em> His father will bring a new woman home and Tooru will think about Iwaizumi’s comforting embrace or the stories the angel had told him whenever Tooru was feeling down. A girl will giggle at his jokes and Tooru will remember the sputtering air near his head when Iwaizumi let out a laugh of his own. </p><p>Whenever he finds himself reminiscing, Tooru will shake it off, pretend like it didn’t happen. Eventually, these occurrences become less and less frequent. </p><p>Life goes on, like it always does.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm not really happy with how this chapter turned out but I've been procrastinating long enough...</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have posted this like 3 times already and it has been sitting on my phone for literally 4 years. Please take it from me!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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